


G-Point Michael

by NikoNotHere



Series: One-Shots [10]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Cutting, Dark, Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikoNotHere/pseuds/NikoNotHere
Summary: TRIGGER WARNINGS IN NOTES AT THE ENDTill is left alone with his most recent song whose lyrics are maddeningly stuck in his head. He sympathizes too strongly with his work, and mitigates those feelings in his own way.
Series: One-Shots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126496
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	G-Point Michael

“God damn, Till. This is brilliant.”  
Peter Tägtgren fiddled with a few keys on his computer, adjusting the various levels of the vocals Till had just recorded. 

“Your voice is really coming through well here,” Peter praised. “It’s really, really raw and painful. I like it.”  
He gave Till a happy thumbs up.

Till merely shrugged in return.  
“Thanks. It didn’t take very long to put down the lyrics, and the singing just followed.”

“Well, it’s all excellent, lyrics and vocals. Poor stupid Michael, eh?”

The lyrics played in Till’s head at the mention of Michael:

“Der Michael, der Michael,  
Der ist im Kopf nicht sehr hell.  
Doch was da fehlt ihm unter'm Schopf  
Gar prächtig blüht im Lendenkopf.”

Till responded with a forced smile. “Ja. Poor Michael.”

“Do you want some food? I was gonna go out after getting these vocals recorded, and it went faster than I thought. We could get some nice dinner.”

Till shook his head and said, “Nah, I’m going to turn in early tonight. You go.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll bring leftovers, then.”

Till gave a mock salute at Peter before retreating to his bedroom, or what he took as a bedroom in Peter’s cabin. Their studio was a makeshift lodge in the middle of nowhere that Peter had converted for his own music needs. The two were in the middle of recording the first album for Lindemann, though most of the album had been recorded and mixed already. They were finishing a few loose ends and adding things here and there as extras that didn’t seem to completely fit the rest of the album. 

Till’s latest addition, “G-Spot Michael” had been one of those extras. When he brought up the idea to Peter, he’d loved it, but Till had a hard time writing what he wanted in English. The words just didn’t come as easily as the rest of the album. What he ended up with was a random mix of English and German that seemed a little too different from the rest of the album. Instead of discarding it as Till suggested, Peter offered that they use it as a B-side for the Fish On single. After a bit of back and forth, Till agreed. 

The lyrics, particularly the chorus, were now maddeningly stuck in his head having just sung them for about an hour straight.

“G-spot Michael, G-spot Michael,  
Soon I'm gonna die.  
Pounding like a four-stroke cycle;  
Make me happy, make me cry.”

He now regretted the decision to include the dumb song as he plodded heavily back to his room. He heard the front door slam, and Till threw himself back onto the spare bed to stare at the ceiling. Peter’s car roared to life a minute after, and Till listened as the engine noise slowly faded away from the cabin. 

“G-point Michael, G-point Michael,  
Nothing left to say.  
Banging like a four-stroke cycle,  
All night long I stay.”

Till wiped his face with his hands, scratching it a bit with his nails as he did so. The light pain of his fingernails lit a fire under his simmering emotions and propelled him back up off the bed. He jumped to his feet, feeling himself working into a heightened frenzy. He looked around desperately for something to negate the rising feeling of losing control. He yanked the drawer to his desk open, but his stashed whiskey bottle was empty.  
“Fuck,” Till spat, wishing he’d just gone with Peter. He didn’t need to be alone, not after baring his soul like that. It was just asking for pain: pain and depression.

Of course, he would never let anyone know as much; not even Peter. G-Spot Michael was just a dumb song about a stupid man whose only talent was fucking— that’s it. The fact that it had been drawn from personal feelings, personal insecurities and doubts about his own worth was irrelevant. His music wasn’t him, right? It was just a vague reflection of his thoughts, not an exact replica. Right?

The ache in his soul begged to differ. Till grunted as he slammed the drawer of the desk shut, clanging the empty bottle inside. He was fine, perfectly fine. Everything was fine.

Till stalked out into the living room, looking for his shoes. He needed to move, make his mind busy with other things. He grabbed his tackle box and fishing pole from beside the back door and left, slamming the door behind him. His strides were hard, pounding against the dirt path down to the lake. It was well below freezing, but Till barely noticed. When he did eventually notice, he welcomed the dark cold that bit at his poorly clothed body. He hadn’t realized he was just in a pair of boxer shorts and t-shirt before he left the house. Was it snowing? It didn’t matter.

It was just a song.

Till stopped at the edge of the dock, squinting in the dark to see if he’d left his chair here last time he was fishing. He suddenly noticed a bobbing form floating several meters out, and realized his chair had been blown into the lake.

That small inconvenience snapped whatever mental restraint he’d been clinging to. Till angrily threw the fishing pole out on the ground next to the dock. He then crouched down and began digging through the tackle box. He scattered various lures, hooks, weights, and lengths of fishing line in his search, uncaring about the mess. When he finally found his knife, he sighed in relief. It was there, as it always was in its little carrying pouch. He slid the fillet knife from the sheath, rubbing fondly against the flat, cold metal of the delicately curved instrument. 

The blade was kept religiously sharp. Till was nothing if not fastidious in the upkeep of his tools, and his various hunting and fishing knives were no exception. The fillet knife, though, was special to him. The light blade, turned up slightly at the end was perfect for swiftly gutting fish, and deboning them if he chose. He rarely did, preferring instead to cook them whole, only taking out the guts and bloodline before throwing them onto a campfire.

“I know why I have to die;  
All my cells inside are running dry.  
All my tears I gave away.  
Doesn't matter; all night long I stay.”

Without really meaning to— or at least that’s what he told himself— he slid the edge of the blade lightly down his arm. Goosebumps rose wherever he trailed the knife. He stroked it back and forth, feeling somehow soothed by the chill of the night and the touch of the blade. Till allowed the feelings he’d been desperate to quell come rising to the surface now, letting them slowly drown his mind.

He was a stupid man; a stupid man with no skills to speak of. He’d barely managed to struggle through the minimum amount of schooling as a child, not even enough to get a degree. And now, Rammstein existed not due to anything he brought to the table. Anyone could easily write lyrics about cannibals and sex if they put their mind to it, and his singing was certainly nothing special. Growling and yelling wasn’t exactly a specialized skill. His poetry could barely be classified as much, and he was beyond certain that if his father were still alive, he’d be outright ashamed.

A snarl filled his throat at that passing thought. Fuck that man. He might be stupid, but he’d never hurt another person the way his father hurt him. Not once did he tell someone they were useless; not once did he let slip if he found someone a bit dull or uninteresting; and above all else, he had *never* raised so much as a finger in anger to someone else. Only himself. He might be stupid, but he wasn’t a monster.

Till sat down heavily, knees aching from crouching for so long. His anger dwindled, leaving the gross feeling of his stomach cramping as it always did when he became unreasonably upset. The depression muscled its way into where the anger had been, and Till wished he could bring it back instead. At least the anger didn’t make his body and soul ache.

He felt choked. His throat closing up was the worst part of this, whenever it happened. 

Till stuck his legs out and dangled them over the edge of the dock, barely dipping them into the icy water. He sucked in a sharp breath at the painful cold, but the ache from the drastic temperature drop wasn’t enough. With a grunt, Till pulled his boxers slightly to expose the pale skin on his upper thighs near his groin. Faint white lines crisscrossed in a jagged pattern across his thighs. It had been a long time since he’d been this low it seemed, by the look of the scars. He couldn’t really remember when the last time was. The location of these scars was important. No one who knew him well ever saw them, and the people who did see them, he never saw more than one night. They never asked, either. He was always too busy with his only gift to the world for them to ever ask. 

He kicked his legs, splashing the freezing water around and trying to keep his feet from getting frostbite. He was in mental pain, but not enough to permanently damage himself; he needed his feet intact and not frozen beyond repair.

The press of the knife to his skin felt like nothing at first because of the cold, but eventually the shock of pain lanced up his body when the blade dug deeper. Till hissed out a breath as he dragged the knife up his thigh, already feeling his storming thoughts replaced by screaming pain. He bit his bottom lip very hard, determined not to flinch and accidentally cut himself too deeply; where he was cutting lay too close to arteries for him not to be careful. Getting stitches or a blood transfusion was not how he wanted to end the night. 

Dark blood seeped out from the newly opened skin, but didn’t gush. Despite the heavy thumping of his heartbeat in his ears, he kept the blade level and deep enough to distract, but that was all. It was a far cry from the manic, coke-fueled bender in the hotel room that gave him his ghastly upper arm scars. This was methodical, therapeutic— *good* for him, he reasoned as the knife finished its first trail. He could only faintly see the blood trickling down his leg in the dark, making small drips against the wooden dock underneath him. The lyrics continued to torment him, though they began to finally start to fade away:

"I know why I have to die;  
Inside my body all the veins are bleeding dry."

Till groaned when the fillet knife left his skin. The wound felt both ice cold and fiery hot at the same time as his nerves tried to process the pain. A flood of endorphins and adrenaline quickly followed, speeding up his heartbeat and easing the emotional turmoil that was still trying to cling to him. He made another cut just beneath the first, dragging the knife more rapidly this time as his brain became desensitized to the pain. More blood, more endorphins, more cutting. Till was methodical and quick, and mirrored the two gashes on his left leg with two more on his right.

When he finished, Till sat quietly, just staring at the darkened blade and his slowly dripping legs. He could see faint outlines of tiny snowflakes settling in his blood. His mind felt calmed and soothed. His legs throbbed, but not overwhelmingly so. He felt better. It wouldn’t last, of course. It never did. But he’d bought himself some time to gather different coping mechanisms. Alcohol, cocaine, sleeping pills, even writing more dark poetry or lyrics all helped distract or incapacitate his head enough to function normally; or at least as normal as he could manage.

He would blame the blood on the fish he didn’t actually catch; or, because of the large amount of blood, claim he butchered a rabbit to use as bait. Peter wouldn’t press him. He never did. Till was thankful for that. He would ask if Till were okay, and when Till inevitably said yes with a very convincing smile, Peter would nod and go back to work on the album. He showed his concern by leaving Till alone, like he wanted. Maybe Peter knew he might cause more damage by pressing him than simply backing away as he always did.

And Till would go back to his own head, struggling to hold the door to his dark thoughts tightly closed until the next time it inevitably overpowered him.

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Detailed descriptions of self-harm, cutting, and drug abuse.
> 
> Edit: so, I posted this about 20 minutes before the announcement came that Till is selling the actual, real pages he bled on for the Messer book. Not gonna lie, this fic feels a bit weird now.
> 
> English translation of the first set of lyrics:  
> "Michael, Michael  
> Isn't very bright  
> but what is missing in his head  
> Flowers in his loins."
> 
> If you struggle with self-harm, please know you're not alone. While you should absolutely seek help from someone close to you and/or a professional, I'm always willing to talk if you need a listening ear.
> 
> While this fic is dark and offers no hope or light, life isn't and won't always be like that. I promise.


End file.
